in pursuit of critical and compassionate living and thought. in surrender to courage & delight of Christ.
One day I woke up and found
my centre of gravity in a cerebral cloud.
Down, down, down in fog.
From shadows pierce faces,
classifications of missing celebrations, memories mummified in sack races.
They say the brain is plastic. I say I feel so fake –
stuck in the package.
Paranormal parasites like panic pills
preach new diagnoses: You’re the disease.
Neuropsychosis with mimosas –
Down, down, down in the slush pond.
Sparkling specks of flashbacks,
walking the past and present on slacklines.
Pray myself up: please send hope,
but when my hands reach the rope
it flatlines, like the heart
is beat, because the head
What was I talking about again?
Demons, demons, demons.
Everywhere so I am nowhere.
Everyone so I am nobody.
Not real. No such thing.
Can’t tell whose hand is on my shoulder.
But I know its not real,
the brain games, brain mazes.
Skin like walls, skull like halls
for shadows, for objects,
for memories, for medecine,
for white blood cells, for love,
for trains of thought, all of it
through the halls
run, run, run…
I can poke through the monster’s body,
I can pick it up, I can throw it
But somehow its teeth already made it in and
I’m wearing its scales.
I’m on the ground.
Its not my flesh, its what’s eating it.
Chewing up my soul, gnashing in my mind, gnawing on my bones
Like winter – numb.
Tell me its over.
Jesus, doctor, mother, tell me its over
tell me its a story, like
once upon a time, just once, like
One day I woke up and found,
my centre of gravity in a cerebral cloud
I am still flying.
Tell me its over, like a story…
Jesus, doctor, mother,
I am still flying.
Jesus, doctor, mother, friend, husband, daughter,
I know I am still flying
Jesus, doctor, mother, friend, husband, daughter, tomorrow, morning
Because I know, I am here,
I am still…
and I’m coming too.
I leave this poem without explanation.
I leave it without explanation to honour those who’ve known the same and who’ve never gotten their own explanation; to those who live in the tension of the hard work of healing, and of hope. I write it as it is to represent the lack of reason or rhyme we search for to package pain.
I leave it without explanation for those who do not see their own insides in these words to wonder with compassion and caution what goes on beneath their neighbours’ skin.
I leave it without explanation as a point of reflection: that pain and suffering cannot be, neither is it meant to be compared. I bear my own scars to mock shame itself. But I bear them only in part to point out that we must refuse our sensibilities its desires for information over understanding. We must refuse our desires to secretly want to see a spectacle when we walk into someone’s closets. We must learn that it is our own secret pain that gives us compassion, the ability to care for another, when we do not have the information and explanations that allow us to give empathy. Our private endurance and hope are not wasted on each other, even when we cannot know each other’s stories. Let our common endurance and hope make us all stronger, and truly, more selfless.